


a little less conversation (a little more action)

by orphan_account



Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, F/M, Smut, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-28 22:36:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14459265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: AU - Scott goes to a bachelor party at a strip club. It’s Tessa first night on the job.





	a little less conversation (a little more action)

 

Scott is far from prudish, but there is definitely something about strip clubs that makes him want to run for the hills. He doesn’t like the sleaze-factor, and the choking scent of cheap, stale beer and half-lit cigarettes makes him feel extremely dizzy and sick to his stomach. If the flashing lights don’t give him a panic attack, then he’s sure the half-naked pole-dancers will.

If he’d known that this was how an evening with Danny’s raucous bunch of groomsmen would turn out to be, he might have faked a flu bug and stayed at home with re-runs of The Office. Maybe this was why they hadn’t told him their real plans, and he feels woefully underdressed in his Maple Leafs jersey and ripped jeans.

“Have a beer, Scott.” Charlie says to him, once they’re inside. He hands him an IPA and Scott downs it while looking for the nearest exit. “I promise it’s not as bad as you think it is.”

He shakes his head and looks over mournfully at their seats. Danny’s best man had paid an obscene amount of money for their priority entry-fee and, to his dismay, front-row seats to the stage. The seats are an offensive mustard-yellow, stained with (what he hopes is) beer and _not human fluids._ He finds himself seated at the furthest edge of his seat and mentally counts down the minutes before he can leave without being noticed.

The lights dim and bad techno music all but bursts his ear drums. Scott closes his eyes and prays for the end to come, quickly.

 

* * *

 

It's fourteen minutes into her first ever shift at the strip club and Tessa is so _fucking_ late that she briefly contemplates whether this is the Universe’s way of telling her that she is in no way cut out to be a stripper. It isn’t even the start of her first day and already she is gravely in danger of being fired - if not for the tardiness, then probably for the fact that she didn’t even have time to learn all the steps to the opening dance. Not to mention forgetting to practice the (very unimaginative and most definitely unsexiest ever) lap dance routine that Marie-France had insisted was their ‘baseline’ offering.

The bumpy cab ride over from the university does nothing to still her nerves, and she jumps when her phone rings for the eighth time that night. She finally decides to answer - it’s Kaetlyn, and she sounds frantic. “Where the hell are you, Tess?” She screams, because the music in the club is drowning out her voice.

Tessa cringes at the tasteless techno-beat and the worry she hears in Kaetlyn’s voice. “I’m so sorry, I’m here! I got stuck looking over some work for my professor.”

“You need to quit that TA job, Tess.” Kaetlyn’s complaint is something she has become accustomed to, so much so that she can even picture the worry lines that punctuate Kaetlyn’s face. “Your boss is the worst, and the students aren’t even grateful for your help. It barely pays a living wage.”

She sighs and pulls her falling bag strap back up over her shoulder. “I told you Kaetlyn, this is the only way I can possibly attend grad school. I can’t give this up right now-” Tessa suddenly hears a sharp intake of breath that’s followed by a rapid smattering of French and English.

“Shit, Tess. Marie-France is losing her fucking mind. Can you just get over here now? We’re about to start the opening number.”

Tessa tosses a twenty at the cab driver who whistles appreciatively at her bare legs and too-tight brasserie. She pretends not to notice and clutches her jacket tighter as she rushes out of the cab and past the front line towards the back entrance. On her way over, she gets cat-called by men old enough to be her father, and she tries to block out the vague disgust that she feels.

 _I can do this_. She thinks. But she doesn’t have much time to dwell on how objectified she feels, how nervous she is, because Marie France seizes her the minute she walks into the dressing room and critically sweeps a glance over her incorrectly applied makeup (“too little of _everything,_ Tessa”) and her kitten heels (“are we trying to attract pre-teen boys with those?”). She catches Kate’s anxious glance from across the room as various men and women get to work on her, making her ‘stage-ready’, as Marie France calls it. She’s dolled up in an instant, and when she takes a look in the mirror while fitting herself into someone’s used four-inch pumps, she can barely recognise who she is.

The opening number begins, and she takes her place behind the curtain, right next to Kaetlyn. She can hardly breathe in this oppressively smoky theatre, and before they begin for real, she reaches over to grab Kaetlyn’s hand for a quick squeeze.

It’s a miracle, she thinks, if she doesn’t pass out by the end of this number.

 

* * *

 

Scott is grateful for the momentary reprieve from the noise that technically qualifies as music, as the cacophony is suddenly cut and the entire house is plunged into darkness for the first act.

The familiar beat of Prince’s ‘Kiss’ floods the room, and the spotlight illuminates the single shapely leg that peeks out sultrily from behind the red curtain. A few wolf-whistles and cheers cue the women to wriggle out from behind the curtains, dressed in so little that Scott thinks lingerie companies must surely have the highest profit margin in terms of materials to cost ratio. 

There is no stopping the crowd’s enthusiastic response. Scott is sure he has never seen such animalistic behaviour from grown men, and he has a season ticket to Maple Leafs games. 

He doesn’t know where to look which would least offend his (perhaps misplaced) sense of propriety, but this one particular brunette stands out for him. She’s got these beautiful green eyes framed by dark lashes, and although she has a smile on her face, he is somehow intrigued by the fact that she looks so damned out of place in this entire establishment. She’s dressed the part, of course, with a ridiculously tight black corset that pushes her breasts up fantastically and high-cut matching panties that definitely required a brazillian. Still, she looks as nervous as he feels, and despite her attempt at sultriness, he can somehow see through her entire guise that she’d rather be anywhere but on that stage at this very given moment. And unlike the rest of them, he realises with a hint of amusement as the music truly begins, she doesn’t seem to know what to do. At all.

He takes a swig of his now-lukewarm beer and thinks to himself, _This might be interesting._

 

* * *

 

Tessa is regretting every single fucking decision that has ever led her to this moment. Her heels are cutting terribly into her ankles and she can’t remember anything about this entire dance sequence. She tries to move towards the back so that she could be mostly hidden from view, but each time she so much as inches away from the centre of stage, she can hear Marie-France’s hisses of displeasure and almost-certain wrath awaiting her at the end of this dance.

It occurs to Tessa that she might have gotten away with the terribly uncoordinated dancing, or even the fact that she had stepped on Kaetlyn twice, if not for the fact that she was very sure that there is this particular man in the audience watching her - and only her.

The worst thing is, he isn’t leering at her. Leering she could deal with - she’s dealt with lecherous men before. But this guy is different. She tries not to openly stare at him the way he is staring at her, but from her observations, he seems rather disinterested in the sexualised dancing. _Maybe he’s gay?_ She almost shrugs his scrutiny off and carries on with her inability to coordinate in this dance sequence, but the minute she tries to pivot (in the entirely _wrong direction,_ smacking into the voluptuous chest of the lead dancer, she could have sworn she heard a chuckle, in the midst of all the grunts of the “ _let us see your tits”_ variety _._ She looks over and he seems to be… is he _laughing_ at her?

 

* * *

 

Scott Moir is a horrible person, but even that realisation doesn’t stop him from the laughter that bubbles from him. It might be one of those instinctively inappropriate things to do, like laughing at someone’s funeral, but he stops instantly when he sees that she’s watching him, too. 

Oh fuck. She’s seen him laugh at her. 

And she looks _furious_.

Charlie leans over and whispers, “Is it just me or is that woman staring right at you with murder in her eyes?”

Scott coughs into his beer bottle and says, “I don’t know what you mean.” He clears his throat and dares look at the stage again, only to find that she hasn’t quite lost sight of him yet. Those green eyes seem hell-bent on committing first-degree murder, and Scott’s eyes briefly tear themselves away from the stage to re-map his way out of the nearest exit.

 

* * *

 

Tessa has never felt so humiliated in her life and she’s grateful for when the music ends and she can go back to the safety of the dressing room.

Her safety net, however, is quickly yanked out from under her when she realises that the host, Patrice, is coming up on stage and he looks completely _soused._  

He heads straight for her and grabs her arm in his manacled fist, as the rest of the girls scatter back behind the curtain, and he steers her gently towards the front of the stage. She looks frantically for Kaetlyn, only to see the swish of her pink-lace skirt disappear behind the curtain. 

“Gentlemen.” Patrice says, too cheerfully for her liking, “Tonight I’d like to introduce you to our newest girl here.” 

Tessa’s eyes widen as she suddenly feels the gaze of the entire room on her. 

“She’s practically a strip-club virgin… just waiting for the right sort of induction” He continues to tease, inciting a series of loud cheers. Patrice surveys the entire room and grins, “Are there any takers for a private dance with her?”

A dozen hands shoot up and bids fly in from all over the room. A particularly rowdy group of men in the front row start to wave money in Patrice’s face. To Tessa's horror, they seem to be associated with the guy who had earlier been in tears laughing at her.

Tessa feels vaguely light-headed and wonders how much longer this torture might go on.

 

* * *

 

Scott isn’t surprised that Danny’s band of enthusiastic groomsmen eventually outbid every single man in the room. He feels a slight tinge of guilt for participating (rather unwillingly) in this objectification of women, but he’s sure that laughing at a stripper who is just trying to do her job isn’t a better response either. 

The host invites their entire entourage to the VIP lounge and he reluctantly gets up to follow. He pities his brother for a moment, and thinks to himself that being single might very well cut out any unnecessary embarrassment and anxiety from his life.

What he doesn’t count on is that in the lounge, when all the groomsmen are distracted by the multiple women who drape themselves over them like liquid silk, Danny pulls him over and begs him to take his place. 

“I don’t want to do this Scott.” He’s almost desperate, “They’re crazy if they think that I would do this to Sheri.” He twists his silver engagement band nervously. “I - I need you to go in there and take my place.”

Getting a sloppy lap dance from a woman he had been caught laughing at isn’t high on his list of priorities, but Scott sees the anguish in Danny’s eyes and somehow feels like he cannot say no.

He is so _fucked_. 

“Why can’t you go?” He whines, hoping Charlie would take pity on him. “I can’t, Charlie. That woman will rip me to shreds.” Charlie rolls his eyes and mutters something about him _acting like a goddamned diva_ and shoves him through the door of the fancy lounge.  

 

* * *

 

“It’ll be fine, Tessa.” Kaetlyn gives her a tight hug which steadies her nerves a little. “I remember my first lap dance. He was scrawny and balding and he smelled like weed.” Kaetlyn shudders and pulls her out of the embrace. “At least your first lap dance will be better in that respect than mine.”

Tessa takes the shot of tequila that Kaetlyn had poured for her earlier and feels it burn an entire pathway to her stomach. “Well at least you didn’t have someone _laughing_ at you the whole time you were dancing.” She mutters under her breath. 

Kaetlyn doesn’t hear: they’re beginning individual stage dances now, and she’s up for that second act. Tessa barely has time to say goodbye before Kaetlyn’s whisked away to fulfil someone’s fantasy of women in leopard print underwear.

 _At least I'll never have to see that douchebag again_ , she thinks, tipping another shot back. _It’ll be this new guy who’s probably going to be so hard up for anything he won’t even notice how fucking unprepared I am._

She faces the door of the private lounge for a moment, her heart racing wildly in her chest. It’s just a nameless, faceless stranger - she can - no - she _will_ keep it together for thirty minutes. 

 

* * *

 

When the door opens, Scott startles and almost drops his drink. His eyes meet hers and, up close, she’s even more intimidating that he imagines, even in nothing more than a few scraps of silk and lace.

The minute she sees him, she almost trips in horror over the ridiculous fringe curtain that drapes over the door. Scott rushes over and steadies her before she falls and breaks an ankle. 

“Are you okay?” He says, his arm holding her up by her waist. He’s amazed how quickly she regains her composure and dignity. She straightens herself, pulling back from him and says, “You - you’re not the client I was paid to dance for.”

Scott flushes in embarrassment and tries to explain himself. “I’m really sorry. Danny he… Danny’s getting married and he’s really faithful and so he made me - that is, I’m taking his place and - "

He doesn’t finish his sentence because she’s right in front of him, up close. Even in the dimness of the entire room, Scott can see just how beautiful she is. 

She doesn’t let him finish anyway, and Scott sees in an instant that she seems to have made up her mind about something. It’s as if a switch flicks on and suddenly the woman standing before him has no trace of anger or discomfort. She looks confident and sexy and Scott is trying very hard to _behave himself_.

She begins by sweeping a glance over him, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say she looked almost like she was admiring him. She gently places her hand on his chest, looking right up at him through those devastatingly long lashes and full lips. “What’s your name?” She asks as she pushes him down into a chair. 

He doesn’t think about the implications of giving a stripper his real name when he says, stupidly, “Scott.”

She runs her hand across his chest as she circles around him, eyeing his jersey almost critically as she says, “Well… You’re very cocky for a Maple Leafs fan, Scott.” 

He feels a twinge of shame creeping in. “I’m sorry for laughing, earlier. It wasn’t at you, I promise-” Suddenly she hands her hands on his shoulders and she is touching him _so gently_ that it tingles. “You just seemed so out of place here… when you were dancing, I mean. I didn’t know it was your first day.” He doesn’t know what possesses him to offer more information. “I don’t like strip clubs that much. Not that there’s anything wrong with strip clubs but I just- ” He clears his throat, “I was just enjoying your… dancing.” He makes some strange movement with his hands, like an idiot, “It made me feel a little better.”

She doesn’t say anything but he knows he’s far from forgiven. She comes back around and walks towards the pole that plunges down the centre of the room, giving him a view of her shapely ass. Scott coughs and looks up to somewhere less obscenely delicious. He notices that the ceiling is stained with _very incriminating streaks_. “So uh… what’s your name?” He asks, as a distraction. 

She shakes her head and loops her ankle around the base of the pole, twirling herself around it almost experimentally. “I don’t do names. I just dance.” She meets his eyes for a brief moment before wrapping herself around the pole, balancing her whole weight on a single-handed grip. 

Scott resists the urge to whistle appreciatively. She’s more athletic and graceful than what her earlier dance betrays. “What do I call you, then?” He asks as she curls around the pole with a firm grip, and he can’t force himself to look away now because whatever little self control he has is gone, now that there’s no more blood left in his brain.

“Does it matter?” She swings her legs over her head to the top of the pole, wrapping one tightly around the pole so that she can release her body down it slowly. She stretches out her other leg, spreading herself open, letting him see the thin lace that leaves little to the imagination. 

Scott’s entire mouth dries up and he feels a desperate need for something stronger than beer. He coughs and shifts back into his chair, averting his eyes. Maybe if he continues this (very bad) line of conversation, she’ll eventually give up and just let him go home.

 

* * *

 

Tessa starts to feel alarmed when he doesn’t seem to want to even look at her. In fact, he’s practically twiddling his thumbs, he’s so bored. Tessa cuts whatever little she remembers of her routine short, gracefully pulling herself back up flush against the pole. She tilts her head inquiringly at the strange man who sits in the chair before her, who seems so completely uncomfortable in her presence that she might be offended if she weren’t so… intrigued. As demeaning at this entire exchange is, Tessa feels the allure of a challenge awaiting her. She studies the slight blush on his cheeks wonders whether how far she can push him tonight. 

She walks over to his chair and takes his chin in her hand as she straddles over his lap. His whole body tenses when she runs her fingers down the sharpness of his jawline, her eyes meeting his fully, her thumb coming to rest on the fullest part of his bottom lip. 

“What turns you on, Scott?” She murmurs, letting the tips of her breasts brush against him. 

 _This_. He thinks before his brain can correctly put in a mental filter. _You gyrating all over me. You showing me just how little your underwear covers your pussy. Your scent and your warmth and the way you are looking at me like you could just devour me._

“Nothing.” He says instead. It’s such a stupid answer and he tries to sound as disinterested as possible, in hopes that she might take the hint to back away and leave him. 

She’s not deterred by him at all. She uses the same cloying tone she remembers hearing a student use once when she was trying to beg for a better grade. “Surely that can’t be right. A gorgeous man like yourself…” Boldly, she spreads her thighs wider and grinds herself slowly across the fly of his jeans. 

Scott’s blood pressure is rapidly rising and _this is not a good sign at all_. He lifts her hips off of his as politely as he can and says, “I - I think we can just sit here and talk. We don’t need to -“ He doesn’t have the words to complete his sentence. 

The more Scott pulls away, the more Tessa feels emboldened. She wants to _fuck_ this man _up good_.

“We don’t need to what, Scott?” She insistently holds him captive beneath her thighs, a ghost of a grin behind her pursed lips. “If you say it, I might let you go.”

He takes a deep breath and pushes away the many _unhelpful_ suggestions his dick supplies. “I don’t need a lap dance. We can just say we did it and you’ll get your money and - "

She smirks at him, almost cat-like in the way she toys with him. “Do you think they’d let me get away with this on my first day? You’re insulting my professionalism.”

Scott tries to protest - he really does. But what he doesn’t anticipate is her insistence on turning him on and, in her own words, “getting your money’s worth”.

She begins by taking his hands (had he left them there on her hips?) and gliding them up her bare torso. She’s got such sinfully soft, touchable skin, and the little belly-ring that his thumb skims across is the proverbial cherry on the cake. He doesn’t know words anymore when she takes his hands to cup over her breasts, soft and full. How he resists the urge to squeeze, he’d never know. She flicks his thumbs over her nipples, barely concealed under the black lace, and the soft, barely-there gasp she lets out is unexpectedly erotic. She slowly begins to grind above him again, her softness against his embarrassingly hard cock, her eyes locked on his with such a heated intensity that he might have mistaken it for intimacy.

“I suppose I could always guess what turns you on, Scott.” She drawls, her words a sultry trail mimicking the movements of her body. She reaches up to gently caress the side of his face, cupping it in her hand, her thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone. Slowly she inches forward until their noses touch, their lips almost brushing. It’s too tender for words.

“Do you like this?” She asks, gently. Their breaths are slowly falling into a rhythm that their bodies would very much like to mirror. “Do you want more?”

“Yes.” He says, instinctively, ridiculously eager. He doesn’t lie, because really, what’s the point? He’s sure she can feel just how painfully hard he is under his jeans. Even though he’s clothed, Scott has never felt more naked and vulnerable in his whole life. 

“It’s a shame you’re still clothed…” She practically purrs into his ear, her lips grazing its shell. “I’d love to see _all of you_.”

Scott pulls back to look at her, and for the first time since she came in, a small grin tugs at his lips. “We could…” His eyes wander along her bare shoulders and dip down to her breasts. “…take turns?”

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t supposed to be _this hot_. Really, she had expected a night of dancing on fat, balding, and sweaty men, not this gorgeous man in front of her. 

But four little words from this man could just about bring her to her knees.

“It’s not fair, though…” She tilts her head as if in contemplation, “You seem to have me at a disadvantage.”

Scott levels the playing field by lifting his arms over his head in almost-total surrender. “All yours.” He murmurs, watching as she runs her hands down the fabric of his jersey to skim over the hem. She takes her time to strip it off him, her gaze hungry and _wanting,_ and Scott drinks it all in. 

 _Damn._ Tessa looks at the faint definition of muscles that ripple along his torso and biceps and it suddenly seems like the whole damned room is _burning up_. 

“You can touch me.” He says, a little too smug for her liking. So she does one better - she tastes, dipping her head to kiss his shoulder, his chest, his abs, careful to press herself down his body as she pushes apart his legs and slides between them to get on her knees before him. He doesn’t suppress the shiver that runs through his body as her fingers trail over his bulge, thick beneath his zipper, and the pure fascination and raw hunger that’s in her eyes is a sight he won’t soon forget. 

She doesn’t keep him in suspense for long, because those soft lips are starting to wander across his impossibly hard cock, over his jeans. _Holy fuck,_ she’s got him practically throbbing now, and Scott grips the armrests and tries to steady his breathing. At his reaction she grows bolder now, deviously allowing her tongue to run a dizzying trail up and down the curved imprint of his cock. Scott’s hips buck upwards, an almost embarrassing expression of what he _really_ wants from her. The self-satisfied smile she gives him _does nothing_ to dampen his excitement. She’s starting to unbutton his jeans now, and he momentarily places a hand over hers to _slow her the fuck down._ “It’s your turn.” He says, trying to hide the desperation in his voice.

Undaunted, she doesn’t break eye contact with him as she takes his hands and guides them to the little clasp at the front of her bra. It’s more complicated than it should be to unfasten it, and Scott almost rips it right off in his impatience. Once he’s gotten it off, he tosses it to one corner and feasts upon what she’s offering - her high, pink-tipped breasts, enticing him to come in close for a taste.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” He whispers in an exhale of reverence. She returns with her own smug smile and works the zipper of his jeans, her breasts jiggling with the effort as she pulls his jeans off, leaving him in his tented boxers. Scott _cannot_ look away. In a decisive moment, he pulls her back into his arms, letting her straddle him. He’s suddenly aware of how naked they are, how closely entwined their bodies are becoming. She slowly settles down onto his lap, straddling him, the soft heat between her thighs coming to rest on his aching cock. 

She loops her arms around the back of his neck, gazing deeply at him. “Scott.” She whispers into his ear, and he feels something primal ignite in him. “I want you to touch me.”

“Where?” He asks, because clearly his dick has a death wish in the form of blue balls.

She does better than telling: she shows him exactly where. She slides his entire hand over her lace-covered pussy and _is that her wetness he feels_? He feels afraid to even breathe as he watches her eyes, half-lidded (for show? For real? He can’t tell.) as she spreads her thighs and lets him feel just how slick and soft she is. 

“I could come like this.” She utters this so softly he’s afraid he might have misheard. But suddenly that curiosity seizes him, and he wants to - no, he needs to see her come all over his hand. 

He’s pretty sure this violates some company policy about inappropriate touching, but she takes his hand and slides it in beneath the lace, over her soft flesh. She’s giving him this irresistibly lust-drenched look and his hand is no longer his own to command. 

She looks so glorious when his long fingers enter her, feeling the way she grips him, eyes wide open and shiny, half-lost in the absolute pleasure of it all. Her breaths grow shallow. She is explicit in her instructions - _fuck me like this, Scott, with your fingers deep inside me. Go deeper, Scott. Deeper. Curl them inside me there - yes now. More. Oh fuck. Rub my clit, Scott, I’m so, so close._ Her bossiness is so sexy, somehow. He learns how she likes it - three fingers, knuckle-deep, smooth steady rhythm, gently rubbing against her g-spot.

When she comes, Scott is caught off guard by how powerful it is. She shivers and pleads for more and his name is uttered like a devoted prayer. There’s a wet patch on his boxers that’s all her (or maybe it’s him too, he isn’t sure).

He’s so hard it hurts, but all other sensations pale in comparison to seeing her orgasm in its full glory. Her flush spreads down her neck to her chest, and he feels his arms close around her as she rides out the last few tremors. 

It’s a wonder he hasn’t come yet. His fingers glisten temptingly when she takes them out from her panties, a half-smile as she leans forward, locking eyes with him, and presses her soft lips to his outstretched fingers. Scott holds his breath in the anticipation as she tastes herself on his fingers, her tongue curling as alluringly around his fingers. The way she glides her tongue over his digits makes him lose his mind, and those beautiful green eyes might just be his new favourite colour. 

He can’t help himself - he runs his hand through her curls and cups the back of her head. She doesn’t seem to fight the almost gravity-like pull that’s drawing her to stay as close as possible to him. There’s raw want in her eyes as she looks at him, and they’re held by this single moment of unison that’s unlike anything Scott has ever felt with anyone else in his entire life.

“Kiss me.” He begs, his eyes soft and his vision a blurry haze of lust and a twinge of tenderness. She doesn’t hesitate with that request - her lips graze, first, the corner of his, before kissing him fully, her lips pliable and lush and yielding, all at once. He’s tightening his fingers in her hair, feeling her mouth opening to him, hearing her making throaty little sounds that send fire through his blood.

He loses absolute control in that moment of bliss, as his hands rake down the smooth of her back and the curved indent of her spine to cup her ass. She takes this as the cue to rock against him as he guides her hips with his hands, feeling her heat through the lace over his cock. 

“You feel so fucking good...” she whispers into the kiss, taking his bottom lip and sucking it gently. She pulls back to hold his face in her hands so gently, murmuring between kisses, “Come for me, Scott.” It only takes a few choice words from her for him to groan deeply, the combination of her body on his and those intoxicating words drowning him into utter submission.

“What’s your name?” He groans urgently, his whole face taut with the force of keeping himself from coming just yet. “I want to know who I’m coming for.”

She takes a steadying breath, wondering just how long he can hold out for. “Are you close?” She doesn’t need an answer, but it’s still satisfying to see just how wracked with desire he is when he nods frantically.

“I’ll spell it for you.” She says, coy, utterly enjoying the control she’s afforded. He practically sobs for her to hurry the fuck up.

“Don’t come until you know my name.” She kisses his throat, licking down his Adam’s apple. “T.”

Scott tenses beneath her and tries to distract himself from her renewed efforts at torture. 

“E.”

His hands are shaking as her own hand reaches down and slides over his boxers, touching him with just barely enough pressure. He makes a strangled noise at her touch and arches into her hand involuntarily.

“S.”

Her green eyes are so fucking gorgeous up close. She adds a little pressure to her touch but it’s inconsistent, sometimes feather-light and sometimes even better than his own grip. She’s very good at teasing him, prolonging this tension.

“S.” 

She’s not done yet. Between the last two letters, she makes him wait what feels like an eternity. He’s sweating and leaking precome everywhere and he almost explodes the instant she reaches in to take his cock in her hand and give it a few quick strokes in succession. 

“A.” Her hand glides over his cock, smearing his wetness all over. He’s slick and swollen and so fucking ready. “Say my name, Scott.”

“Tessa.” He groans with all the finesse he can muster. He’s already shaking. “Holy fuck, Tessa, Tessa, Tessa.” Scott grips her hips as he comes, hard, his eyes still trained on hers. She keeps touching him and doesn’t stop until he’s done. She presses her forehead to his and thoroughly drinks in his waves of pleasure, his cock twitching in her hand invitingly, the hot damp heat between their not-quite joined bodies sending tingles through her entire system. She’s well aware their stomaches are both covered in his come. Somehow their breaths sync up, and she’s sure she never wants to leave this room. In the endless moments of silence, everything else in the world blurs except for the man panting before her. 

Eventually they untangle themselves from each other and she hands him wet wipes to clean up, while she picks up his clothes in silence and drapes them over his chair. Before she leaves, she takes in one last full view of him, half-dressed, shaggy-hair, still flushed and radiant from coming.

“Scott.” She says, when he’s shrugged his jersey into place. He doesn’t take his eyes off hers. 

“Tessa.” It’s idiotic sentimentality, he’s sure of that, but something in him is desperate to see her again.

He takes a step closer, taking her hands in his and pulling her wordlessly into a hug for the ages. Her heart is pounding in her chest and she squeezes him with an intensity that scares her. 

When they finally break apart and leave through separate doors, he looks back at her retreating figure and wonders whether this might have all been a dream.

Tessa hears his door close behind her and knows that she may never see Scott again. She’s definitely crossed some lines tonight but it’s so fucking confusing that she hasn’t felt this satisfied in a long time - and yet she still wants more.

There’s something that squeezes her heart painfully when she looks back and he’s truly, finally, irrevocably gone.

 

* * *

 

She hands in her notice three days later, before her shift. Tessa tells Marie-France that it’s because of the terrible working hours, but really it’s because she can’t stand the thought of dancing with (for? against?) another man who isn’t Scott.

She doesn’t have things to really clear out (it’s not like they have _desk space_ ) but she does take some time to say goodbye to the women she’s become friends with. Kaetlyn gives her the biggest hug and even Marie-France seems a little torn to say farewell. 

“Oh, Tessa?” Marie-France says as she pulls on her coat, “Someone’s left something for you on your dressing table. Said it was important.”

She’s trying not to get her hopes up, but she can’t help thinking that she knows what it might be, and who it might be from.

She spies the envelope on the table and snatches it up. Her name is scrawled in big letters on it: T-E-S-S-A. 

Her breath catches.

She opens it. Out tumbles two tickets for a Maple Leafs game this Saturday.

 _Date?_ The note enclosed reads. _Yours, Scott._

**Author's Note:**

> I've had to stem several nose-bleeds throughout the writing of this very difficult-to-complete fic that keeps evading me. Still in the rabbit-hole of shipping these two. It's been four months. At this point, I don't even want help anymore.


End file.
